


Advent XXI

by Tammany



Series: Assorted Advent Stories, Christmas 2014, All-sorts, some connected. [23]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Christmas Dancing, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Romance, F/M, Gen, Waltzing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 16:06:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2779301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here. Have some fluffy romance. It's time for a bit. Enjoy! XD</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advent XXI

“Is he asleep?”

John kept his eyes shut and his breathing slow and steady, little Em rising and falling on his chest, totally out cold.

Sherlock bent over him. John knew it was Sherlock because Sherlock couldn’t not-radiate Sherlock-ness to save his life in a situation like this. He was fairly sure his friend guessed. He heard a very quiet scoff and cracked an eyelid open, frowning dramatically.

He heard another tiny huff of amusement, but Sherlock straightened and said, firmly to Janine, “Yes. Like a log.”

She huffed herself—an amused, laughing tone, though. “Well, look at us, then. Half the party’s run off before opening their presents, and there’s your folks and John and the baby snoring away like they were drugged.”

“No—that was last year,” Sherlock quipped, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “I try not to repeat myself. It would give Mycroft too much of an advantage.”

Janine had apparently heard about the prior year’s fiasco. She made disapproving sound—this one also more amused than genuinely dismayed. “You’re a bad man, you are, Sherlock Holmes.”

“On the contrary,” he said, smug and laughing. “I’m the best man. You should know.”

She snorted. “A bad man and a terrible wicked tease, too. Y’ should be ashamed of yourself, you should.”

“I’m shameless.”

She laughed outright, then, a low, smoky chuckle that made John’s brows rise….almost as startling as the first time he’d seen her waltz out of Sherlock’s bedroom dressed in nothing but one of his shirts. “That you are, lad.”

He could hear her move. Then—then he could hear them move.

He wondered in stunned hysteria whether Mummy and Father were really asleep, or if they were faking, just like him. And if they were, what did they think of the sound of their younger son snogging crazy, fierce Janine—and sounding like his breath was being swept away.

It was a surprisingly long time before he heard clothes rustling again, and Sherlock say, voice shaken, “What was that for?”

“Mistletoe.”

A pause, and then a puzzled, “But we’re not standing under any mistletoe…”

“Oops. My bad. There’s some over there in the entry. Want to try again?”

Who would have expected that tense titter from Sherlock?

On the other hand, John thought, remembering Sherlock’s reactions to Irene Adler, maybe a bit of a schoolboy giggle was only to be expected.

“Try again?”

“Yeah. Get it right, this time.”

The pause this time….

Could you strike sparks on silence? Set off explosives without a single word?

John knew he was going to have to tell Mary, whenever she came back from whatever she’d got up to with Anthea. He tugged his jumper down and tried not to respond to the faint sounds of excitement on the other side of the room. Listening in was rude.

Not listening was impossible.

He remembered the day of his wedding, crashing through the side reception room and seeing Sherlock and Janine, and thinking that for once in his life Sherlock had successfully pulled a bird. He remembered his shock, a month later, that Sherlock appeared to have not just pulled—but been able to hang on to a bird. He’d have expected any sane woman to toss the dear, lunatic prat on his arse no later than the morning after. He’d say something—he’d do something—and she’d be done with him.

Now there he was, only a few feet away, snogging his little heart out.

John grinned. His little boy detective was growing up!

The music shifted on the stereo, and he heard a deep, delighted rumbled from Sherlock. “Oh…”

“Mmmmm?” Janine sounded blitzed—pleasantly so.

“Want to dance?”

He made it sound indecent. She murmured, then said, “This—this is real waltzing. Not just one-two-three-one-two-three pop stuff.”

“Yes. Real waltzing.” Sherlock sounded both shaken and stirred…a very well mixed martini indeed, and apparently pretty high proof. “The Waltz of the Snowflakes. Nutcracker.”

“Is that predictive.”

“A bit early in the day for that. Do you want to dance, Janine? Really dance?”

The sound she made reminded John of a startled kitten—tender and startled and vulnerable. “You can barely push me around the floor for pop crap.”

“Come on. Just remember what I taught you….”

Apparently she agreed. John heard them shift to the foyer, where the floor was open and clear. He heard Sherlock’s voice, soft and deep, say, “Ready…and…one-two-three, one-two-three…”

“One-two-three, one-two-three,” she whispered back. And then they were silent, but for the sound of feet racing in a quick triple beat.

John, careful not to shift baby Em, turned and looked, eyes veiled by lowered lashes. Sherlock was tall and slender and moved like romance writ large. He held his partner tenderly, protectively, guiding her, his head ducked over hers. She was not short, but still, was shorter, and she kept her head down, watching her own feet.

“You’re doing well,” Sherlock said.

“Good teacher.”

John could just make out the flick of a smile. Just make out the tiny shifts that suggested Sherlock stood a bit taller, and let his chest expand with just a bit of pride.

Janine was in one of those insanely lush robes Mycroft had supplied. Hers was deep garnet and gold, beautiful against Sherlock’s indigo. Her feet were bare. Her hair was in a single braid that fell over her shoulder—a braid slightly mussed from being slept in. Her skirts swirled around her legs and Sherlock’s like a proper party dress.

Sherlock—who knew Sherlock danced so well? He swung her around and around like the dancing snowflakes of the ballet…fast but still relaxed and almost lazy. A dream of winter romance…

Then the two stopped as the music played to the end, then shifted to something upbeat and not half so romantic…and the slow applause echoed from beyond the foyer, and Mycroft’s voice said, “My-my, brother-mine. It looks like I arrived just before you started opening presents without us.”

Mary slipped in next to John, and leaned close, whispering, “What-all did the lovebirds get up to, then?”

John, under his breath, said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” knowing that the laughter in his own voice was giving him away.

“Fibbing,” Mary chuckled, then added, “Tell me later, then.”

And John, sitting up and easing Em to wakefulness, wondered if he would—or if he’d keep silent.”

Remembering the look on Sherlock and Janine’s faces, he decided on silence. Some things belonged on the far side of the veil, imagined by others, but private to the lovers themselves.

 

 **Nota Bene:** The music is indeed the [Waltz of the Snowflakes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qcxixZjeulE). This is the real thing--Sherlock and Janine dance to a popularized version that gives them a nice long uninterupted swirl based on the dreamy bits with the exciting bits worked in properly for social dancing. And Sherlock finally gets to _properly_ dance….even if he doesn’t have a case to justify the indulgence.


End file.
